


Elder Scrolls: Exile (WIP title)

by The_Mothmans_Ranger



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-22 18:40:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30043029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Mothmans_Ranger/pseuds/The_Mothmans_Ranger
Summary: This is the beginning of the adventure
Kudos: 2
Collections: The Elder Scrolls





	Elder Scrolls: Exile (WIP title)

**Author's Note:**

> This is a WIP fic and the first one I have ever sat down and earnestly written, so please do not expect much. This is probably the final draft of the chapter, but I may update it further. I hope you enjoy it, and I look forward to writing more!

**Prologue: The Exiled Wanderer**

  
  
  


The bandits knew they were trouble when the bolt of fierce lightning fried their archer. The High Elf had already dispatched one of their number with the sword in his right hand. The archer had made herself a target when her arrow glanced off the heavy iron armor he wore underneath his black traveling cloak. The Elf knew the bandit would eventually correct her aim and find a gap in his armor, so he had summoned his magic to his left hand, and unleashed the bolt of lightning on her, killing the woman instantly.

_You chose the wrong prey today,_ the Elf thought as another bandit approached him, a heavy steel mace in his left hand with brutal edges, glinting in the midday sunlight, while another started circling to his left flank, giving him a wide berth, hide shield on his left arm raised defensively, a steel waraxe in his right hand, and the Elf could see a desperate fear in his eyes. 

_Fear of what_ , he wondered, _death, or the magic I had used to decimate his comrade?_ The bandit with the mace closed in, making a powerful and reckless swing at the Elf’s chest. The Elf turned enough so that the mace would glance off his heavy chestplate and stepped forward with his left foot, savagely driving his steel sword through the bandit’s chest and erupting out of his back. Knowing that Hide Shield was closing in behind him, he quickly pivoted on his left leg, ripping his sword out of the Mace bandit in the same motion, splattering the road with more blood to face Hide Shield. 

_Greedy, untrained, fools,_ the Elf thought as he faced the last outlaw, who was readying his waraxe and hide shield to charge the Elf. Still several paces in front of the Elf, Hide Shield charged just as the Elf summoned his magic to his hand once more. The Elf unleashed a devastating stream of lightning that danced down his arm and out from his hand towards the bandit. It stopped the bandit in his tracks, while he screamed in agony as his flesh was charred and fried, and fell to his knees before falling silent as he slumped over, dead.

The smell of charred flesh and fur filled his nose as he surveyed the four dead bandits, wondering what could drive such inexperienced people to such desperate action, before wiping his sword off on his cloak and sheathing it on his hip. Once more, he examined the corpses and considered their equipment. _They wore only fur and hide armor,_ he thought, disgusted, _the only steel they had was their weapons, and the reinforcements on the hide and fur armor. Barely fit for open combat. They must have thought me a helpless traveler, the cloak must have obscured my armor enough for that._ The thought amused him. Even for a High Elf, he was large. He easily stood as tall as the tallest of his kind, and he was built like a warrior, corded muscle underneath his furs and iron armor. That fact alone would have made him intimidating enough, but the Divines had seen fit to give him thick midnight-black hair, and golden skin so dark he was practically a copperish-bronze color. It baffled him that they had thought to rob him, even if he was camped out and away from his horse.

Turning away from the corpses, he went to find his mare, Thunder, who had run off when the fighting had started. He headed in the direction she had run off to, not worried about tracking her down, as she had experienced combat before, and was unlikely to have fled far. He passed the tree where the archer’s first arrow had sunk deep into the bark, the shot that had sent her fleeing. He had trained her to flee, but she was smart enough to know she needn’t go far unless he gave the order.

And he was right. He found her drinking at a small stream they had found yesterday when they had first made camp for the night. He approached her, making sure she knew it was him as to not startle her, but she was unconcerned as she drank from the stream. 

“You know, one day it might not be me coming to get you, Thunder,” he said to her as he went to pat her on the neck. Her only reply was the usual huff that had become a common response from her when they were traveling together. She was a magnificent warhorse, black as night, the best bred of the Summerset Isles, tall and strong. _She would have to be strong, to carry a large High Elven warrior in full heavy armor_ he thought to himself as he grabbed her reins and led her back to his small camp. 

He let go of the reins as he approached the smoldering remains of his fire, a heavy boot crunching against the fallen leaves and sticks of the heavy wood around him. He approached his fur bedroll and satchel that he had propped underneath a tree, to keep dry in case it rained. _Be prepared. Always._ The words rang, from a time long ago, a memory from a time best left forgotten. Even still, the Elf was ashamed he had allowed himself to be attacked so openly. He shouldn’t have stopped on the road for the night, not so close to the Skyrim border with a rumor that he had picked up days before in a secluded inn, of a war being waged between an insurgent group called the Stormcloaks and the Empire. Naturally, it was said the war was being fought over some of the Nords of Skyrim refusing to accept the White-Gold Concordant, which had outlawed the worship of Talos, and had ended the Great War between the Aldmeri Dominion and the Empire. 

He rolled his bedroll up and tucked it under his arm, leaned down to pick up his saddlebag, and shouldered the strap. He approached Thunder and reclasped his bedroll onto the back of her saddle, and then went to reattaching the saddlebag. As he did so, one of its latches holding it closed came loose, spilling one of the items inside onto the forest floor: a journal, bound in dark brown leather and fastened closed. _Of all the things to fall out, of course, it would be that_ he thought to himself as he bent down to pick it up. As he straightened, unbidden memories came to the surface but were just as quickly forced out of the Elf’s thoughts. Yet an odd desire grabbed him at that moment, and he undid the clasps and gently opened to the page on the inside cover. 

He gazed at the name written there, a simple word, written a very long time ago. It was a name he hadn’t heard in a very long time, one he hadn’t heard since his leaving of the Summerset Isles what felt like so long ago. A name that almost didn’t feel like his anymore, but was. Blinking, he shoved the book back into the saddlebag and refastened the latch, ensuring it was securely closed. He went to the remains of the campfire and stamped on it to make sure the embers had died, kicking up a small cloud of ash, before walking back to Thunder and climbing into the saddle. Giving her a firm but gentle kick, he guided her back to the road, rocking in the saddle, continuing his journey northwest to Skyrim, ready to leave Cyrodil behind.

Yet the journal and the word that was written all that time ago, the word that was his name, would not leave his thoughts. It insisted that it remain, if only to force memories to the surface he would prefer to remain buried. As he swayed to the canter of his mare as she plodded down the road, leaving the campsite and the stench of rotting bandits behind, he allowed a small smile to break his grim visage.

“Kalaman,” he said under his breath in a rough voice. It was a simple name, but the only one he had ever know. It was a just name, a meaningless word, but it was _his._ The one thing they could never take away, the only thing he had left. They had made sure of that.

_Kalaman_


End file.
